Wrote this a few nights ago. It’s still unedited and a rough draft.
It’s supposed to have a spoken word type of flow to it. But yeah, I pretty much wrote down whatever came to my head, meh:
Thoughts run rampant, they cripple me. The rain is my soother, my annihilator. The conspirer and purger of these atrocious thoughts. I’ll never get better. And this loneliness brings me at the border of comfort and insanity. My mind is a flame, that fuels my pain. I can’t love. I can’t hate. I can’t feel anything but apathy. Muffled laughters of girls running outside at 3am reach me… Which momentarily reduce the incessant rumination. But When I feel, I love too easily, hate too harshly. I feel the breath of sympathy. I walk on empathy, crouch in fear. Bend my back, curl left and right till the thoughts paralyze sleep. I fear that I won’t be, what you wanted. I fear the distasteful history that we’ve had. Could it be illusive bi-polarization mixed with apathy that makes me lack and feel? I am who you think I want to be, and there, you judge me. I wear a collar with a foreign nomenclature. I am to you, in solidarity, all your feelings, morbid dispositions, yet I am the ultimate stranger. He who aches in the corner of your psychological alleyway as the rain disposes his face like a painting that is doused by the splinters of raindrops. I am nothing but the canvas, the sculptor, and the subject. For how can one feel and be all when he is nothing but apathy. I am the nihilistic regime embodied in the mind of a crippled renegade soldier. He who imperialistically bear arms to advocate for peace. I am the land of the martyr, the words of the poet, the rhythm of the beat. I am the crescendo that rises from beneath. I am the virgin that fucks at the corner of the street. I am the building of the architect. The nightmare that forces you to clench your blanket, the lucid dream that you ache as you try to fuck Megan Fox. I am the wetness in your pants, the dryness of your cotton mouth. I am the high-men, the penetrator of your hymen. Smoke me like Mary j. And judge me, judge me, judge me like twelve angry men. I am Atticus finch, and a white supremacist. I am perspective and the lack of. What I say is what I say from what I see to elicit what I feel but I can’t speak for all but only what I am told, to what I feel to what I think why and how things should be. I am college ruled thoughts that manifest within the slim lines of your psyche. I bend rationality, fall on the lack of gravity, and I do nothing. I am the sacred and the profane. The universe expanding faster than the speed of light as it sits like a monk in his temple meditating about nothingness. I am the baldness to your hair, the opposite of your views. I am googleplex imprisoned by the absolute value of your mind. I am the inspiration, that provokes your moist perspiration, I am what you am. I am you inside you. I perceive what you can’t because of your lack of perception. I am your lack of perception that renders you unable to conceive what else could be. I am fluid like water, solid like rock, I am vestiges of celestial epochs. Feel me, feed me, fuck me, eat me, my thoughts are all and nothing. They sprint like a violent reflex to skip through a synaptic gap to make movement. As I lay on this bed, strapped and freed by the paradox of the mind. Fast forward. Pause. Play. Rewind. I’m the VCR, the cassette, the hoarder of memories of past human beings who were once them but today are not. I cast dreams on the players who undress and control their remote girls. I am you from the past, who is foreign to your dogmas of today. I am the metal pole holster that holds your curtains up. I am the sun that wakes you up, the vestiges of all your holy feels. The waistband that hides your Boner. I am lackluster and polished, new and refurbished. The boy and the wolf, the hoodlum and the law enforcer. The pedophile and the child. The murderer and the victim. The fame and the fan. The dresser and the nudist. The oppressor and the oppressed. The pragmatic optimist and the impractical realist. The naysayer and the doer. I am shrek and beauty. The once pregnant lady and the aborted fetus. I am the stem cells that augment your horizon. The calcium that fuels your growth, the cancer that deteriorates your health. Why? Who? What? How? Fuck? Shit? Man? I am the question, and A.I.- ‘The Answer.’ The blankness of a full page. If you fully know me, than you don’t really know you. To fully know me, you’d be me. What I do in privacy are the gaps to your knowledge. To understand why he, she or I is, the way he, she or I is - you must experience every literal experience I’ve felt. You are the illiterate that is prisoned in your educated prism. But who am I but all and nothing? Thoughts. I am the imprisonment of your subconscious thoughts, ripping at the seams of your gene’s pockets. I am perspective, I am the totality of nothingness. For you don’t know me. You know you.